Fallout
by simplemelodies
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. When Sherlock reveals himself to John, will things be okay, or will Sherlock be left to deal with the fallout of his faked suicide?
1. Chapter 1 Masterpiece Theatre

Chapter 1

Masterpiece Theatre

-JW

I still have the dreams. They never really stopped.

They just stopped being nightmares; until now.

Every night I crawl into bed, dreading the sleep that awaits me. The screams echo along with gunshots. There's a man lying beside me, arm ripped open from grenade shrapnel. He needs my help, but I can't get to him. The blood flow is increasing.

Then I look into his eyes; those familiar, piercing blue eyes. He's pleading with me to save him, _do something. _Blood is seeping from a head wound, covering his pale face. That's definitely an odd sight, pale in the Afghan. His dark curls peak out from under his deerstalker.

Deerstalker?

Black coat. Dark hair. Blood. So much blood on the sidewalk.

"Let me see him! He's my friend! Please!"

In the distance I hear my name, called by...a woman? Mrs. Hudson. Right. And I'm on Baker Street. _Wake up, John!_

"John." I hear Mrs. Hudson say. "John, wake up." And I'm awake, rolling over and falling off the couch. His couch.

"Mrs. Hudson," I say, my voice hoarse, "what what are you doing up here?"

"I heard you crying out, dear." she stands off to the side as I try pulling myself off the floor. I must've fallen asleep reading again. "Thought maybe you were in trouble."

"Oh," Had it really been hat bad? "That can't be," I mutter to myself. That hasn't happened since...since before.

"I'm sorry, what?" I hear her say as she makes her way into he kitchen.

"Nohing. Senseless muttering." I stand up straight now and observe my surroundings. The sunlight trickling through the windows throws spotlight on everything-all of his things. I scan through it all; the papers concerning he man hat caused all of this, the hardly-used cellphone sitting beside the couch, and his violin. It all throws me for a loop-his absence kills me.

It's so much worse than the Afghan.

"We can go visit him today if you want. I have time." Mrs. Hudson stands and puts her hands on my shoulder. "He was good for you, you know? But," she paused, as if letting the last statement sink in. "in the end, you were so much better for him. I've never seen him care for someone so much."

He didn't care for anyone!

I just stare at the cup of tea in my hands. When did that get there? Long enough to get cold, I see. When she takes it from me, I don't make a sound but get up and walk mechanically to my room. When there, I change into jeans, a blue button-up, and my dark brown coat. Walking back to the kitchen, I see that Mrs. Hudson has taken the liberty of boxing up some of his things. That will certainly not do.

"Don't." I rush and grab the violin from her before she places it the case. "Please. Not yet." She complies, but not before giving me a pitying look.

"He hurt a lot of people, John," she mutters, "but you-I cannot see what, or why, he would hurt you of all people."

I have no idea what that means. Shrugging it off, I trudge down the stairs, waiting at the door for Mrs. Hudson.

xXx

"I'm angry."

"You were the best man...the most human...human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie...so there. I was so alone and I owe you so much."

"One more miracle, for me, Sherlock.

"Don't be...dead"

-SH

I glance around at my surroundings. The men pursuing me have lost my tail, but I can't be certain. In the alleyway now, I jump to grab the fire escape ladder. I catch a glimpse of the men as I climb. _Imbeciles._ Of course, it isn't their fault. Or maybe it was. People are so unobservant. Climbing onto the rooftop after scaling the fire escape, I ready myself to jump to the rooftop adjacent to me. Fear pulses through me as I remember the last time I was on that rooftop, just a few months ago. As I descend down the staircase, a twinge of guilt passes through me, halting me in my tracks. My croft has been keeping tabs on him for me- that's a relief. But it still doesn't feel the same as if I were the one watching my flatmate.

Cursing myself for letting my emotions get to me, I trudge down to the bottom floor and peek through the corridor. No one. Good. I make my way to my old lab. _He can't find me in here. I've covered my tracks perfectly. There's no way. _

__But, still, a part of me knows he is coming down the hall. And there it is-a dark figure seen through the frosted glass of the lab door. It opens and I duck behind my work table and pull a sedative out of my coat.

The sniper rounds the table, pointing his gun at my forehead. "There you are. You thought you could escape death twice, eh? Good luck." Perfect timing. The beaker to my right explodes, and I jam the needle into him leg, depressing the pump and sending the liquid straight into his bloodstream. His eyes flutter shut as his wail cuts off. With that, I take the gun and shoot him in the heart. _He deserved pain. He was going to hurt them. _

I shake myself off and heft the lifeless body on my shoulders. I'm sure blood is dripping on the floor, but that doesn't concern me. All I think is, "I'm free." I don't realize I've said it out loud until I've heard it echo down the hall. As I walk to the morgue, I start putting facts into place. All I need to do is prove Moriarty set this whole thing up and I am not a fake.

_A fake. How could they ever think something like that about me?_ This thought disgusts me, because I know the minds always turn on the best one. I know because it was one of my first experiments. The sniper is beginning to grow heavy, but I can handle it. It's the guilt that is weighing on my shoulders. Such a strong emotion, guilt is. In all my years I've never been so filled with one feeling.

He didn't deserve this. But, really, he needed this. He'd be deadit'd it weren't for me, just like Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Of course, I should have told the doctor, but the logical thing would be to wait until this furiously tight web Moriarty has spun to unravel.

Hefting the man off my shoulders and onto the examination table, I strip him of his extra weaponry and pull out my phone.

Last one at Bart's.

In the morgue.

Come at once.

-SH

The quick text I send to Mycroft is not abnormal. Since my fall, I've had to keep in constant contact with my brother. Every time I take down one of Moriarty's men, he is the first to know. He will send his men and everything will be sorted out behind closed doors.

Just like old times.

Finally, though, it sinks in, "I'm free," I whisper to no one.

But not quite yet.


	2. Chapter 2 Friends

**A/N: I'm American. Sorry if I get terms/slang wrong. Also, sorry about the short chapter. **

**I had someone ask about Marianas Trench-I love them.**

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Chapter 2

Friends

-JW

"John."

The whispered word breaks me from my reverie, sending my train of thought detailing quite completely. Mary looms above me, reading over my shoulder. "A Study in Pink." I can feel her eyeroll like a tick under my skin as she scans the words on my compute screen. "Really, Sweetheart, it's time...time you stopped this. Re-reading old posts will not bring him back."

"I know. I'm very aware of that, actually." She knows I'm irritated and backs away. "You know quite well I've rid of my depression for a long while, Mary, dear." How am I going to say this?

"But..?" She hears the unfinished sentence in my voice.

"But that doesn't mean that I don't still miss him, and that I font loathe every person who caused his death."

Something lights up in Mary's eyes. Sadness, maybe? "John..." she runs her hand over my shoulders as if to calm me. Mary decides to drop the subject, I'm guessing, since she doesn't bring it up again all night

* * *

It's later in bed that I start really thinking.

It's been five months. Five, and I still expect to see him in the living area of 221B Baker Street, perched in his chair like he's deep in thought. I've been over his death for a long time, though I cannot understand why his presence still haunts this place.

I'm involved with Mary now. Beautiful, serene, perfect Mary. It's her that's kept me grounded for the two months I've known her. I can remember when I met her in my office that first day. Her waist-length auburn hair was straight as a pin and her green eyes reflected perfectly the light from my desk. They were almost infinite in depth. Her slim figure sat down in front if me and I was hooked. She was just the distraction I needed to get over the death of my flatmate. I was a haunted man, I will not lie.

But since then, I'm new. Happy, even, with Mary. She did this and I love her and she loves me. That is why I will ask her to marry me.

My eyes fly open at this thought. Just then I hear a knock on the door. Who would be calling on me at-what is it?- eleven thirty in the evening?

Yeah, yeah. I put on my dressing gown and trudge to the door. "Just a minute." and turn the knob.

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**Who is at John's door? **

**Reviews are the best kind of love. **

**Cookies for all. **


	3. Chapter 3 Don't Talk to Strangers

**A/N: This chapter is short. But** I'll** have another one up tonight. Maybe even three. I'm excited about this one. Love you all. **

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Chapter 3

Don't Talk to Strangers

-SH

Mycroft told me to wait outside. I don't want to, but I know something like this is key to John's acceptance.

He must know by now that it was all a sham. It was all there; I left many messages. One time I even disguised myself as the sales clerk at the Tesco. Just two weeks ago I persuaded Mrs. Hudson to tell John that the last of Moriarty's spies had been killed off, right in St. Bart's. No one knew who exactly had done it.

But it hadn't worked. According to my former landlady, John had just gotten a glassy look in his eyes and made his way upstairs to his room.

Now, as Mycroft steps inside my old flat, a feeling if unease settles over me. I tell myself that this is all for an experiment; it is for science and a private psychological profile of my old flatmate. It is definitely something to keep my mind occupied.

* * *

-JW

"Mycroft, hello," _I have no idea... Oh. _

"How long has it been, John?" Mycroft Holmes' voice is quiet in the small flat. He surveys the room, taking in the dust particles and old casework files.

"Not long enough," I mutter. I know he hears me-the telltale Holmes Smirk gives him away.

"I have some news-before you kick me out, I need you to realizethat I was asked to do this." I don't have to ask to know who instructed him to. He takes a seat in the desk chair by the window, taking the time to wipe the dust off before doing so.

"Well, get on with it. It's eleven thirty. You're just like-." Him. Mycroft raises a brow when I break off.

"Actually this is about _him." _When isn't it? "The evidence to prove that Moriarty is real is in Lestrade's hands now. His web has been taken down."

"Okay. I know this." Is there a point to him even being here?

"I'm here for a reason, John." He pauses to slide his grey coat off his shoulders. The look he givs me is almost...sympathetic. That's odd. "Before my brother fell, he asked me to give you this when all the loose ends of Moriarty's we'd had been tied."

He produces a dark purple envelope from his pocket and reaches over to hand it to me. I take it and cautiously set it beside me. "If that will be all, Mycr-."

His cold voice cuts me off, "No, John, that is not it. He also asked me to tell you he is 'sorry for the pain he may cause in the future'." Huh.

"Well he can bloody well tell me himself." I stand up and look at him, obviously hinting that it is time for him to take his leave. "Look, I don't have time for your games, Mycroft. There is a reason why I haven't talked to you in five months. You just as well as I do that I will not tolerate whatever it is you're doing." C_alm down, John._ "Now, if you would please..." I gesture toward the door to the flat.

Mycroft lifts himself from the chair, grabbing his coat and always-present umbrella, and walks to the door. "He told me to look after you. That is all I am doing."

"I don't need looking-after, Mycroft." _I need my best friend. _

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**So?**

**New chapter up in about an hour, I swear! **

**Reviews are definitely welcome!**

**Love!**


	4. Chapter 4 Street Fight

A/N:** I'm too embarrassed right now. I fell asleep writing the fourth chapter last night. But I have both four and five ready RIGHT NOW. By the way...I'm a big fan of cliff hangers. **

**I'm starting this off with a quote. **

**"Now I see, it's all clear to me: I could do a lot of things but I could never be without you." -Hands Up**

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Chapter 4

Street Fight

-SH

"How did he take it?"

"He was cold. It was as if I were in the room with you." I shiver at his words. "Not yet," he warns, "It's not time." Since when was Mycroft so caring? It worries me.

Keeping John in the dark is perfectly easy. Why did everyone assume it was so hard on me? Because he suffered? John's been through a war and back. Certainly he can handle a flatmate's death.

"He doesn't believe you are sorry, brother."

"That is because I am not." Lies "This is something I had to do, Mycroft. Without it, Moriarty would win, and I could not let that happen."

"Are you sure, Sherlock?"

* * *

-JW

I've never been so angry at anyone in my entire life! Mycroft assumed he could come in here after five months-_five months_- of _nothing_ and disrupt my life _again_. No. That is not acceptable.

But I can't do much about it now, can I? Besides, I need to see what ionion the envelope. I walk back from my position by the window (I had to make sure Mycroft was gone) and snatch the letter from the table. "John" is wrttien, black ink on purple cardstock, in Sherlock's manuscript. Normally I wouldn't want to disturb the beauty if this simple object, but I am too angry and too tired to care.

Tearing the seal, I pull out a piece of thick, cream-colored, expensive-looking paper. Obviously this isfrom Mycroft's personal stationary. _Cut to the chase,_I think and start reading:

_John. _

_I instructed Mycroft to give you this letter once the problemother is Moriarty was solved. Everything I told you on that roof was a lie. I had to make you believe I was a fake. It was Moriarty's plan to kill you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson if I did not jump. _

I_ failed you, John. Please do not fail me. _

_-SH_

"No!" How did he ever think that I would so something like this after what he did? I watched him _die. _I watched him kill himself and there was _nothing_ I could do to stop it. How could he believe that I would drop everything for a five-month-old dead person?

Grabbing my coat, I memorize the address and sprint out the door into the light rain.

* * *

-SH

"He's on his way, sir." The suit next to me-I think his name is George?-turned to give this news to my brother.

"Perfect." I thought he wouldn't do it. I thought John would be too angry.

But, no. This is a mystery; John wouldn't pass up a mystery for anything. A letter from a dead man directing him where to go is too much to let slip.

Im lying on the couch in my temporary flat, waiting for a man to walk in and see me for the first time in five months. Before George had said anything to Mycroft, I thought John would be in shock when he saw me-maybe even faint- but now, I can't imagine what he'd do. He seems to be getting unpredictable.

"He's arrived."

* * *

-JW

The building in front of me looks nice enough. In fact, it sort of reminds me of Baker Street. Shaking off that feeling of familiarity, I walk up and knock on the door. After a few minutes with no answer, I try the knob.

It opens into a seemingly well-kempt flat. The only furniture in the front room is a short coffee table and an overstuffed couch.

On the table is a dark blue enveloped with "John" scrawled across the front. I take no time in opening it and reading the contents:

_Walk upstairs. _

_-SH_

_I'm sick of your games! _I wish I could shout this at him. Even in death, Sherlock still believes he can manipulate me.

And so I make my way up the stairs. There is a hallway and I decide to look in the first door on my right-the bathroom. There's nothing important in here, really; just an old towel and a bar of soap in the shower.

Turning around, I collide with something tall and dark. It takes a minute, but I finally put two and two together.

"John. Hello." The deep baritone voice practically fills the flat.

"Sherlock."

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**Hmmmmm...**

**Reviews are love. :)**


	5. Chapter 5 Scream

**A/N: I'm so excited about this chapter! :D And to curious readers-every chapter title is a song. I'm odd like that. **

**Thank you all. Really, you're why I'm doing this. **

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Chapter 5

Scream

-JW

"What?" Mycroft stands in front of me, a confused look plastered on his face.

"Uh…" _Did I just…?_ "Sorry. Wait. Why are you here?" I'm trying my best to distract from my embarrassment.

Mycroft turns and walks down the stairs, calling behind him, "You think you're the only person that received a letter?" _I guess I did._ I follow him down to the bottom floor and find him sitting on the couch reading a letter, most likely one Sherlock wrote him. "I would assume Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson have one, too."

Confused, I drop down on the opposite side of the couch from my late flatmate's brother. "Is there a point in this, Mycroft?"

"It's all about points with you, isn't it?"

"Kind of." _This is getting ridiculous. _This thought bounces around in my head as the door to the flat opens and in steps Mrs. Hudson. Following her is Lestrade. "Well this is getting interesting."

"Hello, John. Mycroft." Lestrade nods his head towards the two of us and takes a seat on the coffee table. I stand to let Mrs. Hudson have a seat.

"No, John, you have that seat. You might need it." I refuse and she goes ahead and takes the seat.

"Why are we here? What's the point of this?" All eyes are on me now, serious and…relieved? "Okay, really. What is going on?" I'm angry now. This is crazy. _He _is crazy.

"We didn't get any letters, John." Oh.

"Then, how did you know… Did he tell you to? Like, before?"

"Not before, no."

"Stop being so damn cryptic!" I'm pacing around the living room, angry as ever. The look of shock on Mrs. Hudson's face makes me cringe inwardly, but I'm seeing red and I couldn't care less.

"John." Lestrade stands to stop my frantic pacing. "Stop. Just stop."

"No! You tell me what is going on right now or I swear, I—."

"Sherlock is alive."

* * *

-SH

I hate this kitchen. It's boring. Why did I even rent this flat in the first place?

_"Stop being so damn cryptic!"_ I hear John's words coming from the next room and instantly have to steel myself from entering the intervention too soon.

_"Sherlock is alive_._"_ That's my cue.

I step through the entrance to the living room. John whips around and stares.

"Hello, John."

* * *

-JW

I can't do this. Not now.

_God, what is going on? Why is he here? He shouldn't be here! He should be hiding!_

"You're alive." It is not a question; it is a statement.

"Yes."

"You're supposed to be in hiding! What the hell are you doing here?" The shocked look on all of their faces tells me all I need to know. "You really think I'm not that observant? You, Sherlock Holmes, the man who always says I never _observe_, is really surprised that I figured out your little secret?"

"John—." I cut Mycroft off.

"Shut up. You know, I don't know why I'm a doctor. My acting skills must be amazing for you guys not to notice."

More confused looks.

"I've known for four months. Four. Months."

Sherlock's low voice halts my tyrade. "John, stop."

* * *

**Stop making that face. It'll get stuck like that!**

**Just kidding. You're beautiful. **

**I know-terrible way to end a chapter, right? **

**More tomorrow. I promise. Maybe even one tonight if I'm feelin' up to it.**

**Love you all.**

**Review like you mean it!**


	6. Chapter 6 Acadia

**A/N: I'm annoyed at my writing skills as of late. Super, super, super short chapter today, guys. I'm sorry. **

**Just an update-I may not get to write a lot this weekend. Oh, and I'm taking suggestions now.**

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Chapter 6

Acadia

-SH

It doesn't take the world's only consulting detective to notice the tension filling the room. John's face is red and his body is tense, clear signs that he angry (as if the tantrum before wasn't a sign).

"John, please listen to me." As I say these words, John's body relaxes just a bit, but that's enough to push me forward into the next words.

"I'm sorry." The raw anger that flashes in his eyes doesn't surprise me-it's the right hook to my face that does it. I stumble back, seeing stars and trying to stay upright. I'm completely astonished that I am even conscious.

Once I am able to dismiss the throbbing pain in my cheek, I look into John's eyes. The flame of anger in his eyes has now faded to just an ember. "Sherlock..."

All of a sudden I'm in his arms. It's so hard not to wrap mine around him as well. It took a while after I faked my death to realize I missed him. I honestly feel like I'm home.

But no one else can know that.

"John, it's time for me to explain."

* * *

-JW

It's hard letting go of Sherlock. Even though I've known he was alive for so long, it still felt like he was dead; and now he's here, standing in the middle of the living room, looking like someone had just hit him.

Oh, wait.

For the next hour, Sherlock explains the details of his "death", because even though I figured out he was alive, I didn't know _how_ he was alive. As Sherlock describes how he took down Moriarty's web, I wonder how everything will turn out for us as friends. Will it ever be same? will we even be living in the same flat?

And for the first time in three hours, my thoughts land on Mary. I was thinking about proposing to her earlier. Do I still want to?

_Of course you do!_ I yell at myself.

_John, are you listening to yourself?_

Sherlock is giving me a strange look. His brows are knit and he's staring off into space like he's deducing some important crime scene. I half expect him to pull out his pocket magnifying lens.

_What could it be?_

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**So...? Review.**

**And, again I'm reallyreallyreallyreallyreal ly sorry about the short chapter. **

**If I get one written tomorrow, it will definitely be longer, I promise!**

**Here's a cookie. :)**


	7. Chapter 7 No Place Like Home

**A/N: Ahhhhh! I can't believe it took me so long to get this up. Truth is I just had writer's block. It's seriously the worst thing ever. **

**Seriously. Anyway. Here's chapter 7. I hope to wrap everything up in Chapter 10. **

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****Chapter 7

No Place Like Home

-JW

One of the oddest things of Sherlock being back in my life is having to get used to a flatmate. That's not to say I don't love that he's back in my life-but part of me is constantly annoyed with his antics. It's truly as ifhere never left.

One might assume that this would make me happy-it does-but Sherlock refuses to speak of what happened after he vanished. Sure, he easily told me _how_ he did so, but won't breathe a word of the aftermath.

Like now. He lays on the couch, eyes closed, fingers steepled in front of his sharp chin. It twists my stomach to see the way his purple button-up hangs on frame to reveal almost skeletal limbs. How could Mycroft have let Sherlock get this bad? Even now I can see the thin sheen of sweat that hints at the withdrawal from whatever drug Sherlock had been hooked to whilst he was away.

The anger swelling up inside me over Sherlock's physical state astounds me. Why does it make me so livid to see him like this? The only explanation I can think of is risidual anger from Sherlock's "death".

Ugh. How could one think that he was dead after all the signs? Everyone (including Molly Hooper, who I am completely miffed at) assumed I would be too unobservant to notice the hushed calls and off-putting followers. And let's not forget the ridiculous clerk costume Sherlock donned at the Tesco a few weeks ago. That was bloody hilarious. It had taken all of my control not to laugh in his face. I could never miss those brilliantly high cheekbones or shining blue eyes full of hope.

* * *

-SH

Hope.

The simple word floats through my mind as I drift toward unconsciousness. I've never exactly believed in hope. It's something ordinary people use as a crutch when their life doesn't go as planned. I detest such emotion. I've never needed anything of the sort and never will again.

Something nags at me now. There's a faint pain in my midsection-a clear sign of hunger-and it makes me cringe. The sweat covering my body is from withdrawal-something John has to have noticed by now. I'm sure he's staring over at me from his chair, not letting me out of his sight for fear of losing me, I'm sure. He's so sentimental like that.

So why that thought make my stomach pang even more?

As I slip closer to sleep, I hear John rise from his chair and climb the stairs to his room.

* * *

-JW

My sleep is welcomed with open arms. However, my dream is not.

It begins with me sitting up in a dark lit room to find that the only light comes from a plug-in nightlight. For a second I wonder where I am, but as the dream progresses, I forget that it is all in my head and continue on as if this behavior is normal.

I stand and observe that I am only in my briefs. I vaguely wonder where my trousers are as I walk to the door on the opposite of the bed and open it. Behind this mysterious opening is a brightly lit dining room. In the center is a fine dining table dressed with a banquet of everything imaginable.

It is now that I notice the figure sitting at the head of the table: Sherlock. He is wearing he's dark purple button-up from the previous night and dark trousers. It is then that I take in _all _of what he is doing. Sherlock is sitting-eating-something I know he hasn't done for a long while.

"Would you like some?" Sherlock's words shock me out of my thoughts and I see he is holding out a fork to me. "It's turkey. Try it. It is absolutely delicious."

"Sherlock, you're eating." Has he gone mad? I close my eyes, trying to figure out what has gone on here. As I take one last deep breath and exhale, I open my eyes to a completely different scene-but one that seems totally normal.

I'm sitting in the grass-grass covering the floor of my flat!-and trying to figure out the right way to work my new microscope.

"The dial on the side-no, the smaller one-focuses on the specimen closer."

Sherlock's breath on my neck startles me, but I reach to the smaller dial nonetheless and try to focus on the task at hand. I stand up in my lab and am immediately overcome by dizziness, in which Sherlock-amazing, isn't he?-catches me as I fall and I pass out.

I feel as if, right before I faint in my dream, I feel lips press against my forehead. However, I brush it off as dream-logic...

* * *

**I have no idea where this is going, really. I just played around with John's inner emotions/monologue this chapter. I really hope you liked this. **

**More Sherlock angst next chapter, though. Promise**.

Reviews are love.


	8. Chapter 8 Porcelain

**A/N: I'm so excited for this next chapter. And it is now that I realize I can't finish this in ten chapters. D:**

**But. I plan to update more. And to better plan my stories. If youcan tell this is my first fanfic. Please be gentle whilst reviewing. On to chapter 8!**

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Chapter 8

Porcelain

-SH

I've always despised dolls, especially when they're made of porcelain. Their eyes are dead, cold, and almost _all-knowing_. It's creepy.

But not much more than dolls give me chills. So when John brings home a doll one Saturday, I can't help but shiver internally. The little _thing_ just stares at me, sitting in his chair, like it can see everything about me. And being a consulting detective-the world's only-I keep everything about me under control.

But it sees right through me. "The woman from the Tesco investigation a few days ago-you remember?-she's been nice enough to give us this...thing." John says the last word like it's sour milk he needs to purge from his being.

"It's absolutely horrid. Why would you accept such an off-putting gift?" If you could even call it that. What it is with people and sentiment?

As I predicted internally, John rolls his eyes and picks up the imposing object from his chair and plops himself in its place. "Because she damn well gave it to me. I couldn't just turn it down. She's seventy-three for Pete's sake." It's as if he hears my '_And?_' and replies with, "And she was too sweet to say no to."

"It's so much easier than you people think it is, saying no."

"Oh? And how does the perfect Sherlock Holmes say no exactly?" His tone was mocking, but I couldn't help but give him a reply.

"I just do. It's not hard when you feel nothing, John." For a moment, I see disappointment light in his eyes, something I notice more and more of lately. Strangely, my stomach pangs me again, which is quite odd, as I just had a bite this morning.

"Yes, well..." John's voice fades as he gets to his feet and I stand from my position on the couch. I make my way to the kitchen, only to bump into John as he begins heading toward the stairs. "S-sorry," he stutters, grabbing my shoulders I assume to steady me. However, while doing so, he catches my gaze and we both stand for a moment, his hands on my shoulders and mine at my sides.

* * *

-JW

_What the bloody hell are you doing? Let go of him!_

But his eyes-.

_Forget about his bloody eyes, you bloody moron!_

I never noticed he was so tall...

_Bloody hell. What have I gotten myself into?_

His face is like porcelain; it's so close to perfect, but with just the smallest beautiful imperfections. Perfect porcelain.

_I give up. _

* * *

-SH

We've been standing like this for a full minute and twenty-seven seconds and I swear John has leaned closer.

And I don't mind it. What the bloo-?!

"Perfect," John whispers, though I'm sure he does not realize he's done so, as his gaze keeps searching my face. And suddenly he is leaning forward and I am not minding it and my brain is focusing on one thing and that is the way my breathing is speeding up while my heart slows down and that my lids are suddenly heavy and now I don't care that

John's lips are on mine. I have no time to react before he is away again and I am left in the room, alone.

_What!_

* * *

**I couldn't help myself. Oh and John is arguing with himself in his part. **

**More soon!**

**Also, all titles are from bands. I'm not original when it comes to titles. Plus I just love these songs.**

**Reviews are love!**

"Don't tell me to fight, to fight for you. After this long I shouldn't have to."


	9. Chapter 9 Truth or Dare

**A/N: Ahhhh! Chapter nine! Thank you do much for the support so far guys. I don't know if the next chapter will be the last. Anyway reviews are welcome. If you hate it, tell me. I'm up for any type of criticism. **

**Love!**

* * *

****Chapter 9

Truth or Dare

-JW

Once upon a time, there was a boy. This boy had no heart. Or so he claimed. This boy was childish, selfish, and had no concept of right or wrong. One day the little boy met a man. This man had been through a terrible war. He thought he was wounded, but it was only in his head. The boy and the man became friends, and soon the little boy became a man as well. The new man began to learn things. Things like right...and wrong. The new man learned how to feel-happy, sad, excited, hate...love. It wasn't long before the new man noticed that his friend-his only friend-loved him. His friend didn't even know yet. Until the friend kissed the new man.

* * *

-SH

I stand in the midst of Scottland Yard, concentrating on the task at hand. A body has been found in an old warehouse and the boys just called for my "expertise." Ha! I guess so am, aren't I? An expert. That's a new one.

The absence of a coat or jumper indicates either carelessness or haste. Butoat the moment I lean more toward tge body being moved. This is not where this man was killed. On the bottom of his right shoe is a red substance, most likely paint. The shot to the back of his head tells me maybe this was a mob killing.

"Check his right trouser pocket."

"Why?" Lestrade asks, though indicating to the monkey behind him to do as I said.

I relay the information to him, giving my suggestion of a local well-known mob. "It would only make sense." The officer that just dug around in the dead man's pocket strolls over to Lestrade to produce a small silver key. Find the lockbox and you have your killer. Good day, Lestrade."

"Wait!" I hear him shout as I walk off. I turn to find him running to me, hand up. "Where's John?" he asks when he's finally caught up. I cringe inwardly at the name, not willing to think of him just yet.

"He had some appoimtments to take care of today." Truth. "Couldn't be bothered." Lie.

He lets me go with a, "Just go on your merry way then." I go on my way, but it is far more wary than merry due to thoughts of yesterday.

After John left, I just stood in stunned silence, my lips still tingling from the sudden pressure from the kiss. I let out a small breath that I'm sure I had been holding for quite some time. I could hear John upstairs but decided to leave well enough alone. He could talk to me when he was bloody well ready.

But what if he never was?

* * *

-JW

I sit on the edge of my bed, haunted by dreams that stayed with me well into consciousness. That's something good that has changed-no more nightmares. They were completely gone. Not even dreams remind me of the war anymore.

However, I am still haunted by Sherlock Holmes. Ever since the night I had my dream, he has captured my attention completely. I keep telling myself it's just the dream, but I know full well, deep inside me, it's much more than that.

I hear him enter the flat and flinch. There's no way I can face him now. But I will, because he diserves it. So I stand up, straighten my jumper, and grab my suitcase.

* * *

**I'm sorry for the insanely short chapter :( **

**But at least you have something to look forward to. **

**Reviews are so welcome! :)**

****"I could be your perfect disaster, you could be my ever after."


	10. Chapter 10 Plan B

**A/N: At this point I would love to say-I'm ending it in the next chapter. I feel as if this story is coming to a close. I know I've pretty much put Mary on the back burner but she makes her appearance known in this chapter. Trust me. **

**Also I dislike the idea of a physical relationship. It's not how I would see it taking place. **

**Anyway. Read on. **

* * *

Chapter 10

B Team

-JW

Mary stares at me, mouth agape, taking in my disheveled look and suitcase. "You...want to move in?"

"You're right," I begin, "I should probably go." I turn from her flat doorstep and move to catch a cab. Before I can raise my arm, however, I am stopped by Mary's hand on my shoulder.

"Look. You cought me off guard. Come in. Let's talk." I follow her inside and up the stairs to her flat. "What happened between you two?" At my confused features she gives me _the look, _"I'm not stupid. The only reason you'd need a place to stay is if Sherlock and yourself had a falling-out. Now, what happened?" I have to admit, she knows me almost as much as-

No, I cannot think of him. Not while I'm with Mary. "I told him...I told him I wanted to marry you. He grew angry." What was I doing, lying? Oh, she'd never find out though.

"I don't believe you, though." And at my baffled look she stands from her perch on the arm of her couch and begins pacing around the room. "Oh, you don't think I haven't seen it, John Hamish Watson? When you two are around each other, you're inseparable! I was warned by a previous flame of yours that Sherlock would be the end of our relationship, that I will always be plan B to him. And now I understand why."

"Why is that?" But I already know the answer.

"He's in love with you, John; and you are in love with him."

"I...I-," I can't say anything. I can't deny it because, as much as I hate those words, they are one hundred percent true. But Sherlock has no feelings; therefore, no feelings for me.

"You can stay here for a few nights, as needed," Mary begins, "but after that I would like for you to find other arrangements."

After she leaves and I have fixed a place for myself on the sofa, U drift softly into oblivion.

* * *

-SH

I've never felt anything-ever. My heart has always been stone. An impenetrable fortress that no man-or greater-could get through.

This is what everyone believed, because I let them. Because I wanted to believe it myself. However hard I try to believe, though, I still feel this presence, deep inside me. It haunts my dreams-at least when I sleep. I cannot escape it. I feel it tearing at every part of me.

I never wanted to feel because I never wanted to be distracted from important things. This feeling, this emotion, as strong as it is, actually helps my focus-these criminals, I've caught them from just being able to focus that tad bit more.

Ordinary people will say this emotion is lust, attraction, purely physical. John will argue for all his days that it is love. For all of my deductions, I can't help but believe him.

Anderson and Dinivan both believe John and I have been-ugh-shagging. That is absolutely absurd. John is straight. He always will be. Now, you don't need the world's only consulting detective to know that us an outright lie. Well, sort of. John is straight, as in he appreciates the female figure, their role. Sometimes he even gets off on it. Yes, John is straight.

But how is he in love with me? And how the bloody hell am I in love with him?

I jump when I hear a knocking on the front door of 221b. Why would anyone be here at three in the morning? _Bloody hell, it's Mycroft isn't it? _"Calm down, I'm-," I'm cut off when I open the door. John is there, looking just as uncomfortable as I feel. "Well, come on in then. No sense letting the cold in. It messes-."

"With your experiments, I know." He nonchalantly cuts me off and proceeds to shoulder his way past me up the stairs. As we enter the living area I notice he has not shaven since he left just two days ago. "Mary says I need leave. Says I need to sort things out with you. I agree. We have to talk."

"Yes, we have to speak of this...arrangement." We sit down on the couch.

* * *

"I love you."

"I know."

"Not in weird physical way."

"I'm aware."

"So..."

"So, yes, I feel the same."

"...I think I've known that for a while."

"So have I."

"This doesn't change-."

"No. Nothing will change."

"Right. Good. We are flatmates."

"Yes."

"Right."

* * *

**I love this chapter for some reason. I am an odd cookie, I guess. **

**Mmmmm cookies. **

**Review, please! :)**

**Follow for more Johnlock-y goodness. **


	11. Chapter 11 Ever After

**A/N: Don't kill me. **

* * *

Chapter 11

Ever After

_"I love you."_

_"I know."_

The words echo around in John's head as he sits up from his bed. Funny, he doesn't remember falling asleep after he and Sherlock spoke. Oh, right. They had spoken. Oh, god, John had told Sherlock how he felt.

And Sherlock feels the same. But that still doesn't quite the nagging in the back of his mind that he doesn't remember going to sleep. Hmm. That is definitely going to be a problem.

Certain that it doesn't matter all that much, John hoists himself out of bed and makes his way downstairs, ready to make breakfast. _Shouldn't Sherlock be here_, speculates John as he puts the tea to boil and starts making some toast. It is awfully odd that he's not bustling about solving a crime, or composing, or-

John stops spreading the jam on his toast, staring at the calendar on the kitchen wall. 23 January 2012. That should be 18 August 2012. John remembers because he just changed the calendar himself yesterday because someone else refused to. This intrigues John as he sits down at the kitchen table, moving Sherlock's microscope. What could have possibly happened to that calendar?

Making a mental note to himself to ask Sherlock later, John finishes his toast and tea. He stands and pulls his laptop from beside the couch-though he swore he left it on his chair-and opens it to check his email. _No New Messages._

The on-screen prompt to refresh catches his eye; the date below it confuses him even further: 23 January 2012. Oh god. John stands, placing his computer beside him gently, and rushes to Sherlock's room. He doesn't hesitate before bursting in. The sight confirms his worst fear-dust is settled on everything, even the comforter at the foot of the bed.

_Oh god, no. Just... No. _

John falls onto Sherlock Holmes' bed, wishing with all his might to go back to his dream, back to a world where there was a happy ending.

* * *

_"Afraid it won't come 'round again_

_Afraid to move on_

_Wishing I could go back when_

_Everything was easier and meaningful to me_

_Wanting all we left behind like it's the answer_

_An hourglass we can't rewind_

_Holding back the life that I've denied for so long_

_Can I find my way to you?_

_After all that we've been through_

_After all we left in pieces_

_I still believe our lives have just begun_

_Cause now the past can be outrun_

_And I know you are the reason_

_I still believe the best is yet to come_

_A photograph still in my hands_

_Afraid to let go_

_Minutes rain like grains of sand_

_And time is just a war that's stealing dreams from within_

_So come and take them back again."_

_-Best Is Yet To Come_

* * *

**I'm... Sorry. I love you all. **

**And I just read ****_Alone On the Water_****... I guess that explains a lot. **

**I'mSOSOSOSOSO sorry. This most definitely wasn't the fluff ending you imagined, was it?**


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